


Whatever you need

by WahlBuilder



Series: Peonies [2]
Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 21:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20071165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Anton continues on his path.Viktor follows his killer closely now.





	Whatever you need

Anton varies his approaches, his methods. He has preferences in combat, but he considers other factors when choosing how to execute his targets. “Accidents” are better in terms of inconspicuousness, but time-consuming, difficult or sometimes impossible to implement, and the risk of getting discovered while preparing them is high. Sniping is quick, though needs thorough planning and is draining on financial resources. Calling on favors is effective and keeps him away, allows him to move to the next target faster, but involving other people is always a high risk. Knife-in-the-alley-and-run is straightforward, but dirty. He has to weigh all variables carefully. And one of the most important considerations is that the victim shouldn’t see his face.

Not this time.

This time, he allows himself get personal, he _wants_ the bastard to see his face and to know what’s he’s being killed for.

And it’s so difficult for Anton to not give in to his rage completely—but he can’t. Not yet.

“You know that construction and development are the most lucrative business in the shadows? Oh, you—you probably wouldn’t think of such lowly things like human trafficking or drug trade, they are beneath you.” He kicks the prone figure to the ribs, but not too hard.

He doesn’t want it to be over too soon.

He bends to the sniffling, moaning man. There’s a stench of piss and sweat and blood in the air, and Anton will have to scrub himself later—but he hasn’t had his fill of violence yet.

“Look at me. Look at me, you piece of shit!” He yanks the man by his necktie, and the bastard chokes, doing his best to hold swollen eyes open.

Anton pulls him close. “For you, it was worth it, huh? Another couple dozens millions to your name. What were you planning to do with them? Buy your kid a second yacht? Another house perhaps?” He kicks again to the knee, and there is a satisfying dry sound and the man screams.

He leans back to save his hearing, then leans close again when the screams dissolve into gasping sobs. “Well, now you will lose everything, because I am releasing all of it, every-fucking-bit of your financial machinations into the hands that can, and will, destroy you. But you aren’t going to witness it yourself. Pray, if you have the guts.” He pushes the fucker away, takes out a gun...

“Please. Ple.. my son...”

Anton burns. “Your son,” he says very quietly, the volume stolen by the ball of fire rushing up his throat. “Your so— What about the slums?! The tent city you destroyed? The gas explosion? _They were fucking kids! _Kids, you piece of, you fuck, you—”

The rest is full of fire.

He comes to his senses when cold hands grip him, arms trying to pull him away, hold him back.

“Tosha. Tosha, he’s dead, he’s dead, it’s over...”

He knows that voice.

He stops struggling, the rage has burnt everything in him, every last bit of energy, and they stumble together down on the floor, and Vik—Vitya, Vitya—doesn’t let go, goes down with him, holding him in his arms even though he tries to thrash.

“It’s over, it’s over.”

The cold fingers slide down his arms, and Anton twines their fingers, holding tight, and rests his head back on Vitya’s shoulder, crying silently, unable to stop the tears.

Drained, sick to the very core.

Viktor watches the sleeping form on the bed, watching one shoulder rise and fall barely perceptibly. He’s been watching for three hours, his (gun) on his lap.

It is just a precaution: he needs to protect Anton. He’s certain he’s covered their tracks well—it was so easy to do so because Anton has made such a good job of it already that Viktor needed only an hour to finish it—but still, it never hurts to be prepared.

In seven minutes more (he counts Anton’s breaths), he puts the gun away, on the table under his jacket folded there. He doesn’t want to scare Anton.

When he pulled Anton away from the body, it wasn’t because he really tried to stop him. The bastard deserved even more. But Viktor was concerned Anton might hurt himself. Anton was insensate, and Viktor doubted he remembered their staggering way to this safehouse. Viktor was prepared to gently explain everything, and to apologize for bringing Anton here without asking him first.

He didn’t undress Anton—he wouldn’t, not when Anton couldn’t understand what was going on. He lowered Anton on the bed and when he went to the bathroom and returned with a first-aid kit, Anton was out. Viktor cleans and bandaged his hands carefully.

And now he watches, and he’s been running scenarios and talks.

He should arrest Anton.

He doesn’t want to.

He takes a square of hand-dyed rose-white paper out of his breast pocket and unfolds it.

_His teeth stained by cigarettes as though dusted in pollen, sharp and hidden behind the tender petals of his lips. The veins on his wrists are veins of the leaves: hold a leaf to the sun, and you will see how life shines through. He will use me to stain me with his pollen, but I will drink of his nectar._

It is so far his favorite, because of the poem, because the paper has a pleasing texture, not too smooth and not too rough, and he likes tracing the abstract patterns of pigment. The words are written in a blocky hand slanted to the left. Fingers so nimble and sensitive and clever that they can fold a delicate flower out of layers of the thinnest tissue paper—and clumsy with a pen. But he thinks it’s not clumsiness per se, though it matters little compared to another revelation.

His killer is a poet.

_Tosha_ is a poet.

He can guess how a poet with a love for peonies, with a great memory for literature and sensitivity for languages, have ended up a vigilante—and a leader of the biggest, most dangerous gang in the country. Poverty and systemic injustice. But Viktor doesn’t wish to presume.

The elusive leader of the Vory, the most massive headache for the Bureau for fifteen years.

Viktor doesn’t know what he wishes for more, for Tosha to deny it or to admit it in full.

Most of all, Viktor simply… missed Tosha. Like he never missed anyone before.

The bed rustles, but Viktor doesn’t lift his gaze on it.

“So you are my detective.”

He doesn’t know why but it makes him smile. Brings some of that summer day, that tango and ice-cream and paper flowers feeling into this room. “And you are my killer. My vigilante.”

“What now? Are you going to arrest me?”

He looks at the poem again. And folds the paper, returning it to the pocket. Then turns to Tosha.

Tosha’s face is turned away, bandaged hands resting on top of the duvet, closed into fists. He is going to break skin like this again, and bleed. Viktor has learned some things while trailing his killer, his poet, his Tosha. A big family left behind, a trail into the past that breaks into nothing suddenly. Anton Rogue has made himself in a more literal way than the phrase means.

“I want you to work with me,” Viktor says. He’s been thinking about it for a long time, and he doesn’t want to put on any persona for this talk. For Tosha.

And Tosha looks at him, frowning. Listening.

So Viktor continues: “To reach those who think themselves invincible, and make them answer for their crimes. To solve the most confounding cases. Be my partner.”

“Only for this?”

It’s him who drops his gaze this time. He can only hope, can only try to be truthful, even though he isn’t sure what part of him is true anymore. But Tosha… Tosha can find him. Tosha can find anyone.

“I missed you,” he says quietly.

Tosha doesn’t reply—but the duvet rustles, and Viktor’s hand is taken into a gentle hold.

“I missed you, too, very much.”

He swallows. “The logistics…” Then he shakes his head and looks up into Tosha’s eyes—blood-soaked sand, champagne and red wine. “We can work on that later. Tosha.”

Tosha smiles. It’s a weary smile. “Vitya.”

Tosha’s lips don’t taste of peonies—but Viktor thinks they can change this point later.


End file.
